


Circumventing Potential Pseudo-Marital Boredom

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Kinks, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8714098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Sam/Dean. Handballing. Toppy!Sam, and Dean is so not a good listener. Mention of some of the rarely-ever-mentioned-in-slash-fiction realities of anal sex. Written for SpringKink February 2008 on LiveJournal. Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Dean: Forearm, hand!porn. "You're a bright boy, Dean; you'll figure it out." Very not safe for work.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** _Disclaimer: "Supernatural" characters owned by Kripke and Co. Words are mine._

________________________________________

 

Another night at a cheap motel in a nondescript town.

 

Saturday morning close to one-thirty a.m., and Dean's been gone since five the night before. Sam knows from experience that's a clear indication that Dean's having a good night on the tables at the local watering hole. _That_ equates to Dean rolling in sometime shortly after two with a smirking smile on his face, a buzz on, maybe a smear of cheap red lipstick on him somewhere and a thick wad of wrinkled bills in his wallet.

 

In which case Sam _also_ knows from experience that Dean'll be hornier than a three-balled tomcat when he arrives. Sam will be awake still—always is when Dean comes back. Can't sleep when big brother's out, stopped trying a long time ago. With a head-shake Dean'll smile, saying, "You're like a fuckin' mother hen, Sammy." Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to him ( _c'mere, si' down, Sammy_ ), the wad of cash will come out, get waved in Sam's face, and Dean'll tell him down to the penny how much he'd won. He'll stuff the bills back into his worn leather wallet, the one with the permanent circular condom roll imprint on one side.

 

The wallet will go on the nightstand, Dean'll toe off his boots and his socks and then he'll lie back on the bed. There's a fifty-fifty chance on any such night about whether the next words out of Dean's mouth will be _wanna fuck you, Sammy_ or _want your dick in my ass, Sammy_. Dean's not polarized on that issue. Neither is Sam. Top, bottom, doesn't really matter to either one so long as it's _them_.

 

It's always the same.

 

And _that's_ what's bugging the shit out of Sam right now. He knows how it'll go because it never changes up, and Sam chuckles briefly, thinks he must sound like a bored housewife complaining she ain't gettin' no satisfaction from the old man. Sam wryly admits that it's not quite _that_ bad. Yet. Figures he may as well be proactive, though, circumvent potential pseudo-marital boredom and do something about it. Stir things up, toss a little shake-up in Dean's direction. Maybe even get a little kinky about it.

 

Maybe even get a _lot_ kinky about it.

 

Dean'll think later that Sam really needs to lay off the pay-per-view porn channels for a while.

 

Sam checks the clock, sees he still has about an hour before Dean'll show up with a thick wad of cash in his wallet, thick cock in his jeans. He jerks off twice in the shower thinking about what he's gonna do to Dean once he gets back.

 

***

 

Right on schedule, Dean rolls in when the bolted-down clock on the motel nightstand blinks 2:22. First thing Dean thinks is _shit, you multiply that by three and you get...fuck, never mind_. Second thing that crosses his mind is _where the fuck is Sammy_? Sam's always waiting for him, wide-awake when Dean gets back from what's become their primary source of income these days, knocking solids and stripes across tattered green felt with sticks that are so off-balance it's not even fuckin' funny. Can't take your own cue, after all, open one of them fancy, velvet-lined cases, screw your perfectly weighted and balanced stick together in front of the yokels and plunk your own chalk on the rail. Nobody would play you 'cept the stoned and the stupid, and they aren't the ones with the money.

 

Sam comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair dripping wet on his shoulders, rivulets of water matting the hair on his legs as it runs down them from under the towel. Dean stares a little, grunts a soft _ooh_ , then licks his lips. Sam smiles, thinks for a minute that maybe it's gonna be different this time, that maybe the grunt and the lip-lick means they're gonna get right down to it. Maybe Dean's gonna push him to the bed, straddle him, maybe rub against Sam until he's so hard Sam'll be able to see the pretty outline of his circumcision through worn denim material as his cock swells and strains the button fly.

 

"Hey, mother hen," Dean says, sits on the edge of the bed and pats the gaudy floral bedspread. "C'mere, si' down, Sammy." Dean grabs his wallet from his back pocket, opens it, pulls out a thick wad of bills and fans them out to show them off. "Six hundred and thir–"

 

"Get in the fuckin' bathroom, Dean," Sam says, cutting him off. "Get in the shower. Use soap. Get the cigarette smoke and the girl stink off you." A smile that's just shy of evil curves Sam's mouth up at the corners. "And clean yourself out while you're at it."

 

Dean's eyes go wide as Frisbees and his mouth drops open. "Do _what_?" He puts his wallet on the nightstand, then toes off his boots and his socks. Just like clockwork.

 

"You heard me," Sam says, leaning against the bathroom door frame, fiddling with the knot in the towel around his hips. "There's eighteen inches of brand new rubber tubing hanging over the faucet in the bathtub. You're a bright boy, Dean; you'll figure it out."

 

Dean's eyebrows knit up, his nose scrunches and his lips purse as he does the math. The look on his face when he adds two plus two and comes up with four is absolutely fuckin' priceless. His eyes go wide again, and if Sam didn't know better he'd have sworn Dean was blushing. "You mean, you want me to–"

 

"Uh huh," Sam nods. "Want your ass clean enough to eat out of, big brother."

 

Dean looks up at Sam, studies his eyes for a long, careful minute. "You're serious."

 

"As a fuckin' heart attack. It's getting late, Dean. You wanna get laid? Get the fuck in the shower." Sam moves out of the bathroom doorway, leans back against the wall next to it like a goddamn Roman centurion guarding the gladiator stalls. He nods toward the threshold. "Move it," he says.

 

Dean gets off the bed, takes the few steps necessary to close the distance between gaudy floral and the bathroom door. He stops in front of it, turns to face his brother. His mouth opens, but before the question or statement can be uttered Sam says, again, "Clean enough to eat out of." Dean just shrugs, nods, goes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind himself.

 

Sam grins to himself, far too boyish and innocent a grin considering what he just told his brother to do, and what he's gonna do _to_ him once he's clean as a whistle.

 

***

 

So, Dean's got the bathroom all steamed up, hair shampooed, body washed, those couple of wild hairs that grow around his nipples shaved off, the smell of Marlboros and that chick named Tiffany/Taffy/Tawny, something fuckin' cutesy and age inappropriate, showered off of him. Right now Sam's in the other room, taking three-quarters of the cash from Dean's wallet and hiding it somewhere so Dean doesn't blow it on something stupid (like age-inappropriately named girls like Tiffany/Taffy/Tawny), and is also evidently plotting _something_ that has to do specifically with Dean's ass being ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent pure. Dean, meanwhile, is standing in the shower with a foot-and-a-half length of what looks suspiciously like garden hose stretched out in his hands, attempting to figure out how the _fuck_ he's supposed to use it to get Sam's desired result.

 

And then it hits him, because like Sam said Dean's a bright boy. Gravity. Like emptying a swimming pool without a pump, or siphoning gas from somebody else's car. Dean smiles, all proud of himself, and pushes the button in to transfer the water supply from the shower nozzle to the tub's spigot. He squats down, holds one end of the tubing up under the water coming out of the faucet, grins and cackles like Danny DeVito on _Taxi_ when the water starts squirting forcefully out the other end of the hose.

 

Dean stops grinning and cackling when he recalls what he needs to do with the business end of the hose. He thinks he could get away with not doing it at all and just tell Sammy he did. Fuck, the Wendy's chili he'd had for lunch had gone straight through him, there couldn't possibly be anything left. And boy, wasn't _this_ just a massively cool topic to be debating with oneself pre-coitus. _Next time_ , he thinks, _maybe I'll just schedule a colonoscopy first. Jesus._

 

A hard-knuckled rap comes at the door, followed by Sam's voice. "Any day now, Dean. You almost done?"

 

_Fuck_. "Yeah," Dean hollers back over the hard running water. "I lost the hose for a minute, but now I've got a really clean left ear, too."

 

Sam grins, shakes his head, and goes to lie down on the bed.

 

Dean takes a deep breath and works an inch or so of the hose into his asshole. That part in itself isn't so bad, but... "Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" he shrieks, pulling the tubing out. "Important safety tip, Egon," Dean says, half laughing, half cringing, "do _not_ have faucet turned on full-force when performing pre-gay-sex irrigation procedure." He backs the water pressure down by a good half, and tries again. Hm. Not too bad. Not bad at all. Feels kinda good, even. And yeah...lunch at Wendy's had done the trick. Dean makes a mental note of that for future reference.

 

***

 

When Dean emerges from the bathroom, the bargain motel room doesn't actually look half bad. Sam has placed lit candles all over the room, and candlelight always has a way of making even the seedy look sexy. Hell, Dean wouldn't have fucked half the girls he _had_ if that weren't a truism. But girls he's fucked—seedy or otherwise—are definitely _not_ in the forefront of Dean's mind right now. Sam is. Sam, sprawled out on the bed wide-legged on his back, his dick glistening in the candlelight with lube or copious precome, sliding in and out of both his own fists stacked one atop the other. Yeah, he's big enough to do that, and just the thought of it makes Dean go hard, much less the visual.

 

"Sammy, what you–"

 

"On the bed," Sam says, his voice all sinfully soft, sultry, rich and decadent like some fancy desert on a four-star restaurant's menu. "Hands and knees."

 

Well, if the garden hose hadn't been a hint, the hands-and-knees edict pretty much cements the fact that Dean's ass is to be a major player in the ensuing festivities.

 

Oh. Darn.

 

Dean crawls up onto the bed, stops when his head's next to Sam's. Knees and elbows. "Whatcha got in mind?" Dean asks, eyes locked on his brother's. Sam's eyes can be scary, sometimes. 'Specially these days, since Dean can't be sure if those eyes are one-hundred percent Sam's. Maybe even more scary if they are.

 

Sam takes one hand off his dick and reaches for the plastic bottle of Astroglide on the nightstand. "Wanna do something different, Dean," Sam says. "Wanna push you a bit, see how much you want. How much you can take. See how much you'll let me get away with."

 

Dean's cock flexes so hard it makes a noise when it slaps up against his belly. Knee-jerk reaction, Dean wants to say _I'll do anything you ask, Sammy, anything, fuckin' anything_. What he says is, "Bring it on, little brother." 

 

***

 

When Sam wedges a fourth finger into Dean's ass up to the third and final knuckle, Dean fucking _howls_. Sam's thumb teases at the ring of fire, and Dean starts panting like an overweight dog that's been run too long. "I can stop right now," Sam says, pulling his digits slowly out of Dean's body.

 

Dean rocks back, hard, to reclaim them. "You wanna do this, Sammy? You fuckin' do it. Wanna feel your hand inside me, _ah, fuck_ , do it Sammy, do it..."

 

Sam's breath catches in his throat as he watches Dean's ass swallow and close around his wrist. "Fuck, Dean...oh Jesus, wish you could see this..." Sam's got his fist drawn tight, fingers poised to take up as little space possible. "You okay, Dean?"

 

"I think you've made your point," Dean says.

 

"And that is?"

 

"That the predictable is boring."

 

Sam smiles and wiggles his fingers deep inside Dean's gut. "Pretty much."

 

"Gonna make me come so hard, y'know?"

 

"I know," Sam says, "I'm counting on it."

 

Deans smirks. "Guess you're gonna need some tending to, once I blow my load."

 

Sam laughs. "Wow, that was romantic."

 

"Wanna come in your mouth."

 

"Hussy." 

 

Dean grins, and sticks out his tongue.


End file.
